


paradox.

by prickledheart



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abstract, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Character Study, Eating Disorders, Gen, Introspection, Irony, Jealousy, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Self Confidence Issues, Unreliable Narrator, Vague Narrative, Vomiting, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, i guess idk if i'd even call this angst..., idk what else to tag, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:55:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28920921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prickledheart/pseuds/prickledheart
Summary: The one who Technoblade hates most of all, and maybe the only one he hates at all, too, is himself. Simmering, under the burning gaze in his mirror, he knows how low he is, even if they can’t. He knows the ways he’s trying to inflect himself, make himself take up more and yet less space at the same time, and he is doing all too well at failing to adhere to his own standard. He, while being entirely different, is somehow still just the same as they all are.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Jschlatt (Mentioned), Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), general dsmp friendships
Comments: 4
Kudos: 70





	paradox.

**Author's Note:**

> hiya. 
> 
> do not show this work to the creators. this is based in their dsmp characters (not really RPF in my eyes nor RPF shipping, with only one dsmp canon relationship mentioned), as well as fanfics here and there i've read and, to be honest, myself; it's a vent fic of sorts, after all.
> 
> apologies also if it doesn't make total sense- it's a bit of an abstract/segmented piece, but i hope it's good nonetheless.  
> heed the warnings and be safe. thank you!

He would consider himself strong, sure- possibly even the best there had ever been. 

He would consider himself worthless, though- definitely the worst of them all.

Even in a group of his friends, _‘as they called themselves,’_ Technoblade felt like the odd man out- and, to be fair, he was, in and outside of his own scope. It wasn’t the fact that he was a loner, even though he was, and it wasn’t that fact that he had a temper, even though he did; it was the ways in which everyone who came even remotely close to him in any set of qualities were set painfully apart, too.

He didn’t do friends like they did. Technoblade might have been in their ‘crew’, flying under some sort of radar as he claimed a place at their lunch table, but he knew it was a ruse ever still; on their end and on his. They kept him in their passing thoughts, in their phone contacts, and in their social space, while he half heartedly did these, sans the last, back. Assessed by an outsider, it would seem they were doing so much more for him than he could for them, which may have been true, but Technoblade knew himself so much better than anyone else, and he knew exactly what it was all about. 

Power, and status.

Just as all things were.

-

Everyone around him was at least a little bit odd, he would reason, because that was the kind of company their group seemingly attracted. None of them would be considered normal by any means, all the kinds of people to stay up far too late playing video games, each member of their ‘friend group’ having a strange quick only special to them, and all a little unhinged, but in a funny way, by stereotypical standards.

(Technoblade is far too more than a little unhinged, and is far beyond anyone’s standards, let alone society’s; there is no saving for him.)

Dream specifically has this air about him, commanding, almost threatening- he looms above them, as an overlord of sorts, but his friends _know_ him. They believe in him not to really hurt them, _trust_ that it’s just an act, and they praise him for the protection he offers them, the way he stands up and fights by their side, or even alone, just for them. He takes care of the ones who can’t, in a sense, and he gloats for all he’s worth- and, oh, he’s definitely worth much.

(Technoblade has a hard time believing it’s only surface level cockiness and certainly not secret motives that their so-called leader has. Dream is, for the most part, kind, but Technoblade cannot quell the turn in his stomach nor the jump in his chest when those sharp eyes meet his.)

In contrast, Technoblade has to watch himself, when he plays games with the others- so they know he, too, is playing, and that this _is_ an act. He’s far too afraid it will come off as not just playing a game of cat and mouse with them, and though it may be true in some senses, he doesn’t want them to think they’re all serious prey of his.

(The way his friends flinch and turn just slightly too quickly throws him off; it’s all too telling, and he knows they know their place. There’s a difference, after all, between the two crowns they wear. Dream was elected their monarch, and Technoblade brought his own scepter.)

The way they interact with each other is far different than how they interact with him; most noticeable, when the everyday yelling and false fighting starts. Tommy is allowed to burst into a rage, at almost any hour of almost any day, and he does, infact, and their group always just laughs at him. It is light hearted. They joke simultaneously at and with him, and it seems as if it’s not so serious, even when maybe to Tommy, it is. 

_’Maybe it’s because he’s just a kid,’_ Technoblade thinks. 

_But so am I._

(He chides himself for being jealous of his little brother.

 ~~He cannot bring himself to get over it, though.~~ )

-

Technoblade knows it’s true, because that’s what he wants. 

Power and Status.

“If you know the enemy, and know yourself, you need not fear the result.” 

He whispers this to himself, as he knows his place, knows his worth, and knows, quite frankly, just who he is. 

He holds himself to this standard, which no one around him reaches- in an abstract sense, in what he knows- but neither can he. He proclaims himself, inwardly, to be better than them, but sees all his faults just as they do, and perhaps even more. There are complexities to him that only he will know, textured and scored deep within, but still, the wool is pulled over his eyes constantly, and with just a passing glance, he can be psychoanalyzed by his friends in the most unwelcome manner.

He hates it, and he hates them.

(It’s a lie, to put it quite simply; the one who Technoblade hates most of all, and maybe the only one he hates at all, too, is himself. Simmering, under the burning gaze in his mirror, he knows how low he is, even if they can’t. He knows the ways he’s trying to inflect himself, make himself take up more and yet less space at the same time, and he is doing all too well at failing to adhere to his own standard. He, while being entirely different, is somehow still just the same as they all are.)

Here he is, in all his glory; hunkered over a trash can in his room, lights dim, away from the prying eyes of his family. He’s trying to empty himself of the weakness that holds him to replace with power, strength, status- all things he, and every other person, wants.

(All he wants is control. ~~It always slips out of his grasp.~~ )

There is something to be said about the act of sticking fingers down your throat to self soothe; he will ignore voicing something later, though, about how his throat burns to anyone witness at the time. He will play it off when his father says something about how his eyes seem agitated, quickly (but not too quickly) blaming too much late night gaming or schoolwork, and then he will simply fire back at his younger brother when he comments on how bad his eyebags look that day, rousing no suspicion for an innocent sibling clash.

(He prays that Phil and Tommy don’t find out- it will lead to downfall.

Technoblade does not know whose exactly he’s thinking of.)

It’s not entirely that he doesn’t want to have a discussion about it, though that certainly is the case, when his older brother mentions the little red lines that strike few of his knuckles- it’s simply that no words come to mind, other than the ones that point out how all too knowing Wilbur seems to be.

He backs down for the meantime, and it becomes a line they both know not to cross.

(They don’t talk about it again.)

Technoblade plays the part in the elevation of himself, the move to give him more power and status. He holds strength and is in total control of the vessel he inhibits, and he pulls the strings as he sees fit. He is dizzy off it now, but he will become rich off it, too, when he drowns in social currency that he doesn’t even _really_ want by reaching the ideal version of himself- by finally, finally, being perfect.

(He is already perfect, yet still so very far; he knows this will change everything for the better, yet not at all.

He knows it will more likely be for the worse.)

He coughs up the now-mush of that night’s dinner, despite the overbearing, overanalyzing dialogue occurring in his head, and he tries not to feel a rush of euphoria when it’s all done and he sees yesterday night’s too.

-

He makes sure to double bag his trash cans, after the first incident with Wilbur- he doesn’t need his impressionable younger brother finding out, too, or their caring dad either. He starts doing his laundry more often, keeping up an act that he’s mentally sound, or at least, not as bad as he really is, and he gets praised for it. It’s truthfully an act done just so they don’t smell the rot and vomit that linger on his jacket when he’s too uncareful.

-

He is a paradox, that much Technoblade knows; two ends of a spectrum, everywhere yet nowhere at once, and he praises himself to the extreme extent he hurts himself, too. Technoblade knows he’ll never be perfect, yet he believes to be, and for everyone else to not, despite their more sound mentality or social skills. They might even be the same, he thinks, regular everyday human beings, but still, even as he acknowledges this, he knows it’s not true, allows himself to spin unlimited scenarios, that justify and then reconceptualize new ideals and imagery, having no basis in his own real feelings or morality- if he even had a hold on them anymore. 

He twists and turns as he tries to sleep, just as his mind does, and he finds he cannot make it- there’s a lack of sensibility, but still, he pretends that he’s not at the bottom of the food chain in his own heart.

-

Technoblade watches one day as, across the table, Schlatt leans into his partner's ear and whispers something, making him go a bright red. It’s not his business, and, to be honest, it’s not anyone else's either, but Quackity makes it theirs by screeching, “I do _not_ have a flatty patty!”

Some of them laugh, while others come to his defense, but Dream and Technoblade share a pointed look; some kind of understanding, but they are not on the same page. It is a look wherein one says, ‘can you believe this?’, but the other says, ‘I know far too much about how this will end.’ They are actions where one is far too caught up in the antics of others, and one far too caught up in the antics of themselves, yet know almost nothing but the opposite. 

(The irony is not lost on him. He laughs inwardly at this, how Dream acts as if he has everyone under his leash, all their writings in his book, but Technoblade, in his distance, puts puzzle pieces together and feels as though he truly knows what’s going on. The problem he realizes, as he watches the couple squabble, is that it’s not funny this time.

And maybe it never has been.)

Schlatt throws him arm around Quackity, and takes it back, reassures him, but there’s something stirring there, something that only Technoblade can see. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Schlatt has trusted Technoblade, for some god forsaken reason, with certain tasks, and all Quackity can do in an assigned incompetence is to ask for his advice, his motives, his tactics; there is something he sees in the jealousy of those eyes, and there is something that, while peering back at him, they see too.

(He tries not to think too much of it when he accidentally walks into the bathroom and hears someone throwing up, shoes and sobs all too familiar.

It is not his business, after all- they are both only playing friends.)

-

They’re at lunch one day, and everyone seems to be in a good mood.

(Everyone but him, at least.)

Tommy and Tubbo are recounting their latest Minecraft world to George and Sapnap, who recount a story back, from when they made their first one. “Things are so different,” one of them says excitedly, and Techno is inclined to agree. Of course they are, in the world and in the grand scope of things. Everyone else around him has changed, have started to become better people, or at least different, but Technoblade doesn’t feel that way about himself. He feels stagnant, and under pressure, but unable to turn into a diamond from the rough. As he stares down at the remains of everyone else's lunches and his apparently unobvious lack of one, a burn settles in his stomach, a reminder of just how screwed up in comparison he is. 

(There’s a thought, in the back of Technoblade’s mind, of how much better he is, how much more control he has, how he’s more powerful than any of them- he tries to let it go, but he’s nothing if not hypocritical and hyper judgemental with no reasoning at all.

Still, he feels slightly bad about it.)

The lunch Phil had packed him sits still in the bottom of his backpack, covered up by crumpled assignments, and he tries not to think of it as he watches George devour a sandwich in front of him. It’s the second one he had packed for today, Technoblade notes, and he wonders, just what is his act about, how is it George is still lean and carefree when he himself wants to vomit just watching?

(His stomach growls. He tells himself it is rage, and disgust, and he hopes that no one can hear his organs cries over what they know they cannot have.)

He is desperate- for what, he does not know. 

(He tells himself, over and over again, that it’s not for sustenance, that nothing can fix the hunger that settles in his too cold bones but finally reaching what he wants, his idealistic form. He tells himself that it’ll be worth it, eventually, if he just keeps going; and he almost convinces himself, too.)

Something in him crawls, compels him- truthfully, it is his selfishness, his own lack of preservation, and greed; but he need not acknowledge nor tell anyone else the facts. He need not accept their care nor affections, either, and he certainly won’t acknowledge that he needs their help- even if these are, after all, the facts.

The bell rings midway through Dream asking him why he’s not eating, and the lack of space he leaves in his wake makes it more than obvious why.

-

Funnily enough, it’s when he’s eating mashed potatoes that he realizes how much of a problem it’s been.

He’s been a little off the deep end, doing what he must to take destiny in his hands, but it takes him for a ride this time, causing him to pick at and push around his favorite carby substance on the plate.

Tommy doesn’t notice, but Wilbur, of course, does- he keeps his mouth shut, thankfully-

but Phil does not.

“Are you doing okay, Techno? You’ve barely touched your mashed potatoes.” 

For a moment, he falters, freezing before scooping some into his mouth and speaking with his mouth full. “I must have zoned out,” he cringes at himself, “but these are really good.” It is hard to tell who, exactly, he is trying to convince.

He overcompensates with seconds and thirds, of what are supposed to be his safe food, and when no one else is around later at night, he finishes them off, despite knowing Tommy will complain tomorrow when he can’t eat them for an afterschool snack. Technoblade feels guilty, being so wasteful in so many ways, but despite this, he just can’t quite seem to care; he’s stuck in a paradox between good and evil, perfect and not, and, just as he is now, between life and death.

 _’Oh god,’_ he thinks, as the remains of the leftovers hit the shower floor,” _How fucked up I’ve become.’_

**Author's Note:**

> lmaooo flatty patty. f


End file.
